


The things I do for love

by NikaAnuk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Developing Relationship, I don't know how to tag it, Implied Relationships, John being adorable, M/M, Purple Shirt of Sex, Sherlock being sexy, serious fic, that's a mess...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaAnuk/pseuds/NikaAnuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never cooks (mostly because he can't) so when one day he came back with a bag full of groceries Sherlock becomes very suspicious and very keen to find out who is the mysterious date and how John mamanged to hide it from the detective. </p>
<p>It's more serious than I wanted it to be but it's still a bit of fluff when you imagine John in the kitchen. Contains also some clothes!porn and Sherlock-in-the-kitchen!porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things I do for love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really thankful to Chip for another great beta!   
> Also this was a gift for my dearest polka. 
> 
> The title is taken from George R. R. Martin's book of course.

It was only eleven a.m. when John came back from shopping; usually it took him almost half an hour longer. Sherlock looked at the doctor from above his book. He was carrying an extra bag with a salmon in it; they never ate salmon, they rarely cook. There was never time for it and – as Sherlock knew – John could cook as well as he could drive. Surely he didn't want force Sherlock to cook, so what was the reason to buy a fish? It wasn't for Mrs. Hudson, because he would've just left it downstairs if it was. Sherlock stood up and walked to the kitchen to get a look at what he got from the store- a tin with tomatoes, a carrot, a leek... He was really going to cook. 

John was too busy with unpacking his groceries to notice detective's presence at first, but he eventually turned around and froze, blushing. 

“Oh... You want some tea?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Preparing dinner for your girlfriend?” asked the detective, leaning against the door frame. “It must be very serious this time.”

John turned to hide from the detective's gaze. He didn't answer, putting the milk into the fridge. Eventually, Sherlock went into the living room. John couldn't cook but he still decided to do it; that was interesting. Sitting back on the couch, Sherlock wondered what John would cook. There were a few possibilities- if this was for romantic dinner, then John would probably choose French cuisine (in that case he forgot to buy a wine, probably because of nerves).

Sherlock looked at the book but decided to lie down on the couch, with his hands under his chin. John had a very important date today, otherwise he would never put himself in the situation that was uncomfortable for him. Why? Was it possible that he wanted to propose? Sherlock didn't know this woman; he never heard of her, and, when he thought about it now, he also didn't notice anything in John. Maybe this was proof that the relationship was serious? Was this the reason why John didn't bring her here? Or was this because Sherlock was so busy lately and he just didn't notice? Nonsense, he would notice, of course. 

The sounds from the kitchen told him that John started his battle with the meal and, judging by the silent murmuring, John wasn't sure what he was doing. He came to the living room to take his laptop, avoiding Sherlock's curious gaze, and quickly coming back. The detective spent some time on the couch, listening to John say, 'Okay, let's start...', 'Oh no, no, no...', 'Yes, okay, that's good...' Sherlock's phone buzzed with a new message. Without reading it, Sherlock stood up and walked into his room to change. A few minutes later, he stood in the kitchen, putting on his scarf. 

“I'm going out.” he said.

John raised his head like a scared animal, froze with a knife in the fish (he tried to fillet it). Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. Without a word he turned around and left. Oddly, John's behaviour was in some way painful. 

The detective left 221B quickly, buttoning up his coat and turned to his right; he decided not to hail a cab, just take a walk; the day was bit cold, but he wanted to catch some fresh air. Why was John's behaviour like that? It looked just like the man was afraid or ashamed of something. Ashamed of Sherlock? Maybe afraid of something he will have to tell him?

From all people Sherlock ever knew John was the only one – with the exception of Mycroft and maybe Victor for some time – who didn't seem to be frightened by the way Sherlock lived. John was amazingly patient and he even could stand against Sherlock. And for that Holmes loved him; he was a challenge, even when he didn't realize it. Sherlock was a spoiled brat, and he was aware that he blamed Mycroft for this and just kept going, living with John. He sometimes had to give up and do what John wanted; he was pretty sure John wasn't even aware of how much he had changed Sherlock. That was partly the reason why Sherlock didn't want a meeting with Mycroft; his brother would never give him a break after that big change. 

So John was preparing a great dinner for his new girlfriend – Sherlock wondered if he should stay and spoil it or just leave. He nervous around the detective, probably because he had to tell him about engagement, maybe about his move out? It was John's style of doing things; he felt obligated after living with Sherlock especially that he knew very well what kind of person Sherlock was. 

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and hailed a cab, making another decision; whatever the reason was, John needed help, and Sherlock could just as well buy him a bottle of wine.

“Fulham Road.” he said to the driver, sinking into the seat and looking out of the window. 

John wasn't familiar with French cuisine or culture; he could watch a few films, but he never visited Paris. Sherlock on the other hand, spend a few years there when he was studying abroad for Uni (when Mummy decided this is the only way to keep him away from drugs). 

Why did he want to help John? He should just sit down and watch as Watson tried to handle the situation, or he could go bother Lestrade, or ignore John, make some experiment in the kitchen. Instead of that he entered Lea – the wine shop – and looked around. 

“Morning, sir. Can I help you?” the man looked at him smiling. 

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the shelves.

“I need white, dry wine. I thought about Coteaux d'aix en Provence. 2009.”

"Certainly, sir.” The man came out from behind the counter and walked to one of the shelves. “Can I suggest you the Château Revelette? It's Ugni Blanc, the vintage is 2007 or 2010?”

Sherlock got near to the man and took the bottle from his hands. 

“Yes. 2010.” He said absently. 

The seller packed the wine and Sherlock walked out. 

Giving John the bottle is like a blessing to this new relationship. Sherlock felt this fact leaning heavy on his shoulder. It wasn't just wine; it was an agreement for John's move out and his new life. A life without Sherlock. 

What an awful thing. 

He stopped to hail a cab, but instead a black car pulled up by him. He sighed with annoyance, but waited until the door opened and Anthea walked out with a bag. 

“Mr. Holmes sends his greetings," she said, handing him the bag. 

With a frown, Sherlock took it from her and looked inside – there was beautiful fresh salmon. Sherlock snorted; yes, it might be needed, because John was "filleting" the one he bought. And to fillet salmon wasn't that easy, especially when one was doing it for the first time. 

“I'm sure John will appreciate it," he said, stepping back. 

“Do you need a lift, sir?” she asked. 

“No. Go, I'm sure my annoying brother needs you to feed him an entire cake.” 

A moment after they drove away, Sherlock managed to get a cab and came back home.

As he presumed, the kitchen looked like a disaster; John in one of his old army tee-shirt and a knife in hand, tried to finish what was left of the fish.

When Sherlock came in, John raised his head, almost cutting himself. 

“Sherlock...”

The detective looked at him calmly, gave the kitchen one look and left the wine and the fish on the table.

“I dare say, you should never complain about my experiments, John. Your cooking makes more of a mess.”

John licked his lips as he left the knife on the table. 

“I, at least, clean up after myself.”

“I never doubted it," John smirked.

The doctor looked around – the kitchen was really a mess, there were parts of the fish everywhere, fishbones, and groceries laying on the table – and he sighed. He was as well dirty, he even have a pieces of salmon in his hair. 

“Go and clean yourself up," Sherlock said, taking off his coat and scarf. 

And John did, leaving Sherlock in the messy kitchen. 

 

“Pull yourself together!” John hissed, looking at himself in the mirror. He sprayed his face with cold water and dried it with a towel. He very slowly and carefully tried to avoid going out of the bathroom for few more seconds. Sherlock will probably work in the living room again, and he will watch John coming out and... He took a long breath. 'Calm down, old chap, there's no need to panic' he said to himself. 

On the contrary, there were a lot of reasons to be nervous. First of all, there was the bloody fish and all of those things. With another sigh, he walked out of the bathroom, but he froze when he heard the sounds coming from the kitchen. He walked there and felt the cold shiver down his spine. In the kitchen was Sherlock, in his shirt only, with sleeves rolled up. He had put all the dirty dishes aside and placed a whole new salmon on the table. John stood in the doorway, watching as the detective ran his hand along the fish's side, holding the long knife in the other hand gracefully. 

“Please, be useful and clean the mess, will you?” he asked coldly and stabbed the blade just under the head. 

John nodded, surprised with the whole situation. He came to the sink to do the dishes. As he did, he was strangely aware of detective's presence; he heard as the man was working and couldn't stop himself from peeking at Sherlock's back, bowed lightly over the table. John saw Sherlock doing experiments many times- he admired his precision and the passion for anything he choose to do- and now, although he couldn't see Sherlock's hands he could still see what the detective was doing, from the way his shoulders were moving, the way he occasionally shifted from one foot to the other. John leaned over the cupboard with a towel in his hand, drying a cup, watching Sherlock's lean figure. He always envied this grace, this elegance he had; he never did this on purpose, it was only something he had, this ability to always look good. And now, in his purple shirt and black trousers, very narrow waist and messy dark curls, Sherlock looked stunning. And this was just the way he always looked. 

“What do you want to cook?” He asked eventually. 

“Um... Boillabaize?” John dropped his gaze blushing lightly. He took another cup and started to dry it, feeling Sherlock's gave at himself.

The detective half turned to John.

“You mean Bouillabaisse?” He asked and – obviously – his French was perfect. 

“Yeah, this fish soup, right?”

“Yes, John. A fish soup. You can cut the fish while I'll do the rest.”

John froze. A lot of questions went through his mind. That Sherlock could cook was a surprise, but as well was that he knew the dish and that he actually not only _wanted_ but also _proposed_ to help. That was quite extraordinary. 

“John, are you following?”

“Yes, yes, I'm sorry.” He left the towel and walked towards him. 

Sherlock gave him the knife and left him with the clean fillets. The skin and fishbones were removed. John smiled lightly; it seemed that even when Sherlock was cooking, he was doing it perfectly. 

While John took the knife and started to cut the fish into the pieces, Sherlock took the bones and left them on the plate on the other side of the table where he was working. 

Cooking was never John's thing and, until this day, he believed it wasn't Sherlock's either. But seeing how well Holmes worked with the knife... It seemed like he spent a lot of time in the kitchen, not just doing experiments. He chocked the vegetables and then braised them, added tomatoes and left it for a moment to prepare the mixer and clean the shrimps. It was amazing to watch him doing all those thing that John had seen in the recipe (not even once was Sherlock looking at the screen where it was written). John didn't quite understand what he had to do – he just planned to google it later – but Sherlock acted like he was doing it for whole life. 

Sherlock eventually put the pot on the cooker and added the fishbones to the soup. 

“It'll be ready soon," he said as he began to clean his area. 

John watched him from his place, not able to move or even help him. Sherlock acting _normal_ was something what was worth watching. Once the kitchen was clean – which meant all the dirty dishes were again in the sink – Sherlock strained the soup and left it. 

“Before serving," said Sherlock, "heat it up and add the fish and shrimps. I'm sure you can manage.” Sherlock walked towards the door.

John froze, looking at his back while he was leaving.

“Sherlock?”

“When she comes up,” Sherlock said, taking his coat, “there's some wine, white, dry. It will suit the meal.” 

And with that he left. John sat down at the table, staring at the pot.

The flat was silent. 

 

Sherlock hailed a cab and pulled the phone out of his pocket. Lestrade's message from earlier told about some case. He decided to go at Yard and check it out. He could solve it while John was making the most important decision in his life. 

Lestrade was still in his office; Sherlock could see the lights were on. The detective came in, taking off his coat.

“Give me the files," he said. Just then, he notice that the Inspector wasn't alone. 

There was Mycroft sitting on the edge of the desk, bowing towards Lestrade. They both looked at Sherlock as he stopped, surprised. 

Mycroft smiled casually, not even abashed by the situation.

“Good evening, dear brother.”

“Lestrade, files.”

Inspector didn't seem so comfortable about Sherlock's appearance, he raised from the place clearing his throat. 

“We were going out... But if you want to, I can give it to you. Feel free to... you know, just make yourself comfortable.”

Sherlock hesitated but nodded, taking off his scarf slowly. He and Mycroft circled around each other while the elder Holmes was leaving with the DI. Once left alone, Sherlock sat in the inspector's chair and opened the case file that was lying on the desk. He read it through as made some notes and research. An hour later he found himself sitting at the desk, and looking at the photos of a stabbed woman; there was no use being here any longer. He should go to the morgue, and tomorrow force Lestrade so he would let him talk to the witness, because there were obviously mistakes... 

But when he finally got up and put on his coat, leaving the office he didn't take the cab, instead only walked down the street. Eventually he would hail one, but not now. He was walking slowly – not in the direction of morgue – battling with himself if what he was doing was right. 

The whole fuss about the dinner threw him out of the balance; it was only a stupid meal with some boring woman who probably will run away like everyone else before. Sherlock was certain of this. This was just how things always worked. 

But what if this would be different? All those preparations were so different than anything that had happened before. What if this time the woman was so valuable to John that he kept her away from Sherlock just to not lose her? 

This was the first time for a long time when Sherlock used the 'what if' phrase; he hated it because it never led to anything, it was only making you walking in circles. And now he found himself on the streets of London, circling around empty thoughts and worries. 

That wasn't what he liked to do. Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned around to come back when he could catch a cab. Giving the driver the Baker Street address he popped up his coat collar and shifted his hands into his pockets. He would go home and see what's going on; he would ask John about his plans, and everything would be okay once again. Regardless of their stay together or John's moving would be clear; this was the only thing Sherlock wanted.

But when he got out of the cab he knew suddenly that there is something more he wanted; he wanted John to stay. 

The 221B windows were dark like the rest of the street. Sherlock felt a rush of worry as he climbed upstairs to the silent flat. John wouldn't just leave, not after he prepared the dinner; they wouldn't change plans that quickly. Were they having sex? Right now? That quickly? Or did they just eat and leave?

When he walked to the flat, he stopped – the only light was turned on in the kitchen, a small one, lighting on the cupboard and the table. John was sitting at the table with his laptop, covered with harsh, blue light. He raised his head when Sherlock came in; on his face, Sherlock saw the same surprise he felt. 

“How was your date?” the detective asked foolishly, just noticing that the soup was where he left it as well as the wine.

John braced himself and stood up to turn on the main light and then the cooker. He took the fish out of the fridge and left it on the counter, starting to set the table. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked and, oh no, that was bad, that was a bad question; he knew perfectly well what John was doing. The better question was... “Why are you doing this?” 

John once again moved around the kitchen, avoiding the detective's gaze. He set up the table, took out the glasses, and when the soup was warm he put the shrimps and the the fish into the pot. He was tensed, focused on his job but on the edge of fear. Sherlock never saw him like this before; that was a man who was determined to do what he decided to do. 

Sherlock slowly undressed, and not taking his eyes off John's figure he sat down at one cover. Soon the food was on the table and John sat down opposite to Sherlock. 

“Will you open the wine?” he asked, finally speaking for the first time since Sherlock came home. 

Sherlock felt doctor's gaze on himself while he stood up, took the wine and opened it. The atmosphere was heavy and he could barely think. The only thoughts were focused on John and the reason why he was alone; the most likely reason was because the woman didn't shows up, but the longer he thought about it, more doubts showed up. There was no chance John could hide his new relationship; not a chance he would hide anything from Sherlock... 

His hands were steady when he poured the wine into the glasses and sat down. John took his fork and stabbed the shrimps with it.

“I'm sorry, I... know you don't eat and...that you don't drink," said as he stood up, reaching for Sherlock's plate. The detective grabbed his wrist, and John looked at him, all red. Sherlock could hear his heart beating. Or was it his own? 

“Sherlock...”

“Don't, John," he said quietly. “Sit down, let's eat.” 

The doctor hesitated but obeyed; Sherlock took his fork and started to eat slowly. 

“I'll give you some water.” John stood up and took out two glasses to pour them with a water and move the wine aside. 

“Why have you bought wine?” he asked.

“I thought you're preparing a dinner for some woman and you forgot wine.”

“Actually...” John blushed so much even the tips of his ears were red. “I... er... I wanted to do this for us.”

Sherlock blinked with surprise. That was the last thing he suspected to hear; of course it crossed his mind, but he didn't give it the second thought. John wouldn't do this for a few very strong reasons... 

“Why? You know I don't eat.”

“Yes, I... I wanted to do something special. For us. And I... I thought I forgot about that.” 

“Was it suppose to the a _romantic_ dinner?” Sherlock asked, but on seeing John's reaction, he knew he asked a wrong question again. “I mean, did you want us to be involved in something romantic?” he corrected himself.

At that John become even more red but he forced himself to look at Sherlock – and how much he admired those courage of his doctor.

“Yes. I... I wanted to eat with you and to talk. I know you are not interested in any relationship...”

“Actually I am.” Sherlock found himself interrupting. John raised his eyebrows. “Today I understood that I don't want you to leave me. And it's perfectly obvious that this means I want to be in some kind relationship. I also understand that I can't expect you to stay here forever if you will not get anything.” 

“I don't have to _get_ anything, Sherlock. It's... I would like to be with you. I... It's what everyone says, you know? About us, since the first day.” He looked more relaxed; when the first step was behind them, it was easier to follow. “I don't know if I...if I'm interested in a sexual relationship. But I really would like to stay with you. I mean, we actually live like a couple, right? And that's... Why not do this formally? I'm not talking about marriage, it's just...”

Sherlock was watching him with an interest; when John again failed with finishing his sentences he smiled a bit. 

“I understand, John. And I agree. I... don't know if I'm capable of sexual relationship as well. I'm not saying I'll never do this, but it's too soon.” 

John nodded with some kind of relief. He even smiled – for the first time today – and Sherlock mirrored the gesture. 

“So, shall we make some tea?” Sherlock asked. 

“You make tea, I'll clean up. I didn't expect you to actually cook, you know. It seems that I'm doing the dishes.”

“Of course I can cook, John.” Sherlock snorted standing up. “It's basic chemistry, you know.”

And John laughed, collecting their plates. Hearing him like this made Sherlock smile. 

 

With the atmosphere lightened and the situation settled up, they sat down in the living room with book and laptop to spend the quiet evening. It was still too early to talk about them, and they rarely talked about things of serious matter; mostly, everything just happened. Sitting in the comfortable silence, John enjoyed the feeling of relief. Since yesterday when he decided to do the whole thing he was all nervous and couldn't sleep but now, knowing that Sherlock's not against the idea but he seems to like it John felt strange happiness; both his stomach and his head felt light and he was smiling at the book. 

Sherlock was doing more research to the case he got from Lestrade, typing furiously, sitting on the couch; he would ruffle his hair, looking for some information, and everything was exactly the same as usual. With the one exception: the nagging fear disappeared. He wasn't afraid anymore; he could just sit here and enjoy without the wondering about their relationship. The worst part wasn't about him being homosexual or not; lately he was more concerned about what they really are. It wasn't about how people saw them together, it was about him not knowing what was going on. Sometimes Sherlock would act like they were very important to each other, and sometimes he was just himself– a real prick. John decided what he wanted to get and he decided to act. It was probably the bravest thing he done since joining the army; at least he felt like this. 

He raised his gaze when he noticed Sherlock was looking at him (actually he was just thinking but when John looked at him, he smiled). 

Everything seemed so easy now. He smiled and with a happy sigh as he looked back at his book. 


End file.
